


The Champion's armour

by accidental



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Romance, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:41:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidental/pseuds/accidental
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted on Tumblr to go with a picture of my Lucas Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Champion's armour

Hawke is staring at himself in the mirror again.

Since he got the new set of armour, it’s been difficult to drag him away from his own reflection.  
 He can’t get over it; how different he looks.

“It’s all about image,” he explains to Anders. “I need to _look_ like someone who’s beaten the Arishok and saved Kirkwall. I need to stand out in a crowd.”

They both know he could have got something better; he has the money now, and the best armourers in the city are falling over themselves to take his inside leg measurement. He could have got something shiny and custom made, something the nobles would admire and coo over, but instead, his outfit is mismatched, cobbled together from bits and pieces he’d found, or scavenged from enemies.  
The result is wildly impractical and offers very little in the way of protection. Everything about it screams foreigner, upstart, refugee, and Hawke likes that - Kirkwall might have it’s claws in him, but he doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t want to give the city any more of himself than it’s already taken.

He studies himself in the glass again, examining the leather straps and the odd pointy shoulder thing that looks impressive but does tend to get in the way a bit.  
The little touch of fur around the neck is quite barbaric, he decides. He likes it. It makes him look like a hero from a story, and if he looks like a hero, he might be able to convince himself that he’s more than just flotsam, caught up in the flow and drifting helplessly from one near disaster to the next.

Anders watches Lucas from the bed, and can't help noticing the doubt that sparks and flickers behind the man's eyes.  
“Come to bed, sweetheart,” he reaches for Hawke’s hand to pull him down beside him.   
   
Anders still isn’t sure about his lover’s new look. At first glance, all that leather and metal has a certain obvious charm; It clings to Hawke’s body in exactly the right places; defining the contours of his muscles, showing off his narrow waist and the subtle curve of his perfect arse . But the mage soon starts to complain when he realises how many complicated straps and buckles and laces there are, and how slippery they get beneath his sweaty fingers, and how long it all takes.

“Try to think of it as foreplay…” Hawke suggests, and Anders lets out a frustrated little huff of breath. He’s always secretly thought that foreplay was over rated. He still has that Circle mentality; always in a hurry, always greedy and wanting more, wanting it faster, and harder; wanting it now, before it can be snatched away.  
   
His fingers catch on the fastenings of Hawke’s belt and he swears, and Hawke laughs. “Slow down, love,” he teases. “I’m not going anywhere.”

After a while, it will become second nature. Anders won’t even have to think about it. His hands will move automatically - muscle memory, like tying your shoelaces. 

But now it’s still new and strange; the gleam of lamplight on black leather, and the imprint of straps and buckles on Hawke’s skin. The angry scar where the Qunari weapon went through him.  
Dark hair spills across his face, casting his eyes in shadow, and Anders catches a glimpse of somebody else; someone people will tell stories about in years to come.  
He hesitates, just for a moment; unnerved, almost afraid to touch him.  
   
 But the armour comes off slowly, piece by piece, and underneath he’s still just Hawke, still just skin and sweat and blood and bone; stripped bare and begging for Anders’ touch, for his hungry mouth and his clever fingers and the way he makes him feel real when nobody else can.

 Anders is the only one who sees him like this; the only one who ever sees him come apart. 

He pushes Lucas back against the pillows, seizing his wrists and making him cry out breathlessly beneath him, and suddenly it’s easy and familliar. It’s like the way they move together in battle; instinctive, intuitive, bound to each other by something stronger than Kirkwall’s chains. 

His lips graze Hawke’s throat, and he feels the pulse that beats there, strong and steady and heartbreakingly fragile.

“My champion...” he whispers against Hawke's neck, and Hawke laughs softly, and whispers back “My love.”


End file.
